At the Perfect Pear, our local eatery, dinner was less than ambrosial, but halfway through the mashed potatoes, the room was suddenly illuminated by an astonishingly beautiful young woman who arrived (drums, and trumpets, and more trumpets) with bland boyfriend in tow. She was lambent and glowing -- so lovely that I felt the urge to get up and whisper in her ear that her brilliance had refreshed and cheered my entire day.
Of course I did no such thing. I'm not that kind of guy.
Later, I fell into a reverie and brought to mind the very few magnificently beautiful women whom I had encountered in my life. Now I don't mean women who are merely or very attractive, of whom there are, thankfully, many; nor women upon whom one's youthful self has lavished an intense passing crush. I mean women who are goddess-beautiful. Women around whose brows flames flicker, and who, when they walk, do not touch their feet to the ground. Here they are:
In Ithaca, Margaret C., a sylph or naiad. In Cambridge, the young Aphrodite who sprawled so fetchingly in Widener's periodical room, unconscious of the attention she garnered. At the pottery, Mariel ----- ("Ariel with an M,"she said), a psychologist, who, though already greying, was a perfect Juno. Students: in New York, Ms. ----- Pavony, who glowed for almost an entire silent semester, right up to the precise moment that she contributed to the discussion in the squeaky voice and accent of a 1930s M-G-M telephone operator. In Denver, Ms. {exotic first name] Samuels, who, I'm happy to say, remained silent on the rare days she deigned to come to class. A Hindu fertility goddess, yes -- but perhaps also a daughter of Zion. On the airplane: the radiant Denver actress, who confided to me that her best part "so far" was a Midol commercial. On the bus: the young lady with the electric green eyes. At the Folger: the luscious student from France, as lovely as a young woman can possibly be, who said to me, "Can I ask you a question about Shakespeare? Why do some of the lines stop in the middle of the page and some go right to the margin?" Oh, would that she had not asked!
And while I mused over my small handful of goddesses excellently bright, I remembered that on two separate occasions, forty or fifty years ago, an older gentleman had approached Mrs. Dr. Metablog to say, in these or equivalent words, "thank you for being so beautiful."
At the time, I was taken aback, but now, in my pre-dotage, I fully comprehend.
(It stands to reason that I must also have encountered young men of great beauty, but, try as I will, I can't bring any to mind.)
Why do some of the lines stop in the middle of the page?
Posted by: Sarah | September 30, 2012 at 01:08 PM